Lonely Wandering
by launchpad99
Summary: It's been twenty years since Project Purity, and the Lone Wanderer has been residing in Megaton ever since, largely retired. But the Wanderer is a legend, and legends belong to the Wastes. First Fallout story, review if you like.
1. Chapter 1

2297

The Lone Wanderer opened his eyes, and saw the ceiling of his longtime residence in Megaton, distinctive flaws in the bulkhead and all. He could tell it was morning by the light spilling into the house not unlike rain would. He felt his arm around a voluptuous woman, her chest rising and falling readily. He recognized the cherubic face of Lucy West. As he gently released his arm and stood in his simple Pre-War sleepwear in the small, but adequate study/bedroom, he remembered that the pounding in his skull was probably brought on by the inordinate amount of Vodka he'd ingested the night before.

"I gotta stop going over to Dukov's." The Wanderer muttered to himself. He descended the stairs, and looked upon the photographs of Fawkes and Dogmeat. It had taken him months to find a working camera, and another few weeks to find a book on how to develop Pre-War film.

"G-Good M-M-Morning, Sir!" A familiar, programmable voice said.

"Morning, Wadsworth. I don't suppose you could get me a drink?"

"C-Certainly, sir! Here you are!" Wadsworth said and handed the Wanderer a container of Purified Water. He unscrewed the cap and began to drink as he had a look at his Pip-Boy. It was 1042 hours, and he was hungover. But he didn't need the Pip-Boy to figure out the second part.

He heard a sound from upstairs and instinctively dropped the water to a floor in a flash and reached for the Scoped .44 Magnum on the nearby repair bench. Lucy West descended the flight of stairs, wearing little but Pre-War Sleepwear. A little like how the girls' in Dukov's wore. The adrenaline in his system subsided and with trembling hands, replaced the revolver.

"Morning, handsome."

"Morning." The Wanderer remembered that he dropped the water.

"Drink?" He asked. Lucy shook her head and reached for her day clothes on the bobble head rack. The nearly empty bobble head rack.

"No, thanks. I think we both did enough of that last night. I'm amazed you're not dead."

"I know that feeling. What're you doing today?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe head to Moira's. I found a Chinese Officer's uniform the other day. Should be worth a few caps." Lucy explained as she disrobed and got into her day clothes. The Wanderer nodded and yawned.

"What about you?"

"Me? Maybe go out into the Wastes, pump a few Super Mutants full of lead, and be back in home for a nice bowl of Cram and lovely company for desert." The Wanderer said with an air of sarcastic, chiseled-jaw heroism. Lucy laughed.

"Ha, now I know you're joking." There hadn't been any Super Mutant sightings for nearly a decade.

"No, but I think I'll just sit around."

"You seem to be doing that an awful lot lately." Lucy said, a dash of concern in her voice. She walked over to him and held his hand in hers.

"Come out to the Wastes with me sometime. Have some fun, see the world."

"What's left to see?" The Wanderer replied, a tad vacantly. Lucy said nothing but gently kissed him. Then she went out.

The Wanderer said nothing, but leaned on the wall and allowed his eyes to rest on the photograph of him, Fawkes, and Dogmeat all together. He could feel tears well up in his eyes and a lump form in his throat. He hated himself for being weak, then he choked back a sob and reached for the bottle of whiskey he kept in the secret cabinet under the bobble head rack. He knew it probably wasn't a good idea to drink when he was hungover, but then again, he knew it wasn't a good idea to leave the Vault. Bad ideas never stopped him before.


	2. Chapter 2

2287

In the dark, the Feral Ghouls were home. A deafening bang and blinding flash of light disturbed their formerly comforting home beyond previous belief. The splatter of their irradiated organs against the Vault-Tec poster served as a kind of poetry. The kind of poetry the Wanderer had learned to master.

"WE SHOULD OBSERVE CAUTION HERE." The deep, gruff, inhuman voice of Fawkes broke the silence.

"You're not wrong, buddy." The Wanderer said quietly. The Combat Shotgun in his hands gave him a passing comfort. Comfort in the routine of things. He heard the familiar hum of Fawkes' Gatling Laser and turned to see a dead, visibly smoldering, Glowing One. He couldn't help the grin that stretched over his face, under the Tesla helmet. They moved forward, blasting away whatever had the terrible fortune of crossing their path. They came upon a door that looked important. Fawkes raised his Gatling Laser, but the Wanderer silently raised a single hand to signal there were other means of entrance. He pulled out a bobby pin and began to pick the lock. Years of experience and an apparently limitless supply of bobby pins were just too much for this 200-year old lock to stand up to.

As the lights flickered, and the air was tense as a Lyon's snatch, the lock clicked and the door borne of patriotic metallurgy opened. The pair stepped inside and the room was bare, stunk of mildew, and was bereft of all light, save for the Pip-Boy, and the lone computer terminal in the center of the room. The Wanderer strapped the Shotgun to his back, and logged into the terminal. It might have taken him longer, if he hadn't held an Enclave officer at the right end of a Hunting Rifle a few hours ago.

Words of bright green flickered, and The Wanderer couldn't help another grin as he read what was on the screen and turned to face Fawkes.

"DID YOU FIND WHAT WE CAME FOR?"

"Yup." The Wanderer retrieved the Shotgun from his back. "Now let's raise some hell."

The pair left the room. Just when the silence was returning to it's impenetrable state, the air itself shifted to reveal a rather tall, well-built fellow in the Recon Armor of the Brotherhood of Steel. He tossed away the used Stealth Boy and read the words of green. When his eyes widened with panic, he activated yet another Stealth Boy and took after the Wanderer and his enormous, inhuman companion.


	3. Chapter 3

2297

"You know you're not going to miss."

"Doesn't mean I can't keep in practice."

"For what? Seems like a waste of ammo."

"Do you wanna shut up and just let me shoot?" A deafeningly familiar bang was the accentuated the Wanderer's point, as well as a shattered bottle of Nuka-Cola on the other side of Megaton. The Wanderer and Maggie were on top of the Wanderer's home, a Reservist's rifle in his hands, a bottle of whiskey at his right, and the 29-year old girl to his left.

"What'd I tell you?" she said before turning herself around toward the wheelchair to _her_ left. The Wanderer took a swig of whiskey. He chuckled.

"Hey, tell Moira I'm conducting a new experiment: if I can still shoot when I'm piss drunk." He said, each chuckle short, quiet, and always interrupted by another swig. Maggie gave him a look, then climbed onto the wheelchair.

"What?"

"You know how I feel about you drinking so early in the morning." she said before rolling down the ramp that lead down into The Wanderer's home. Before heading down, she turned around and the pair locked eyes. The Wanderer stood, collected his things, and helped Maggie down the ramp. They exchanged goodbyes, leaving him alone once more. He looked at the Tesla Armor hung on the wall and suddenly felt a violent compulsion to fling the nearly empty whiskey bottle at it.

The armor now not only stank of blood and gunpowder, but of the welcoming, pungent scent of centuries-old booze.

Wadsworth hovered over the broken glass and began to sweep it up. The Wanderer was making his way back up the stairs, when there was a sharp, staccato knock on the door.

"I'll g-get it, sir!" Wadsworth said, programmably jubilant. As the door opened, he saw Gob and Doc Church holding a particularly battered, obviously unconscious young woman. The Wanderer recognized the fiery scarlet hair of Lucy West. He rushed to grab a Stimpak from the medicine cabinet on the wall. Gob laid her down on the bed upstairs, and Doc Church applied the Stimpak.

"What the fuck happened to her?!"

"Calm down, buddy. She was at the gate, half-dead when we found her. She started mumbling something about Raiders and then said to bring her here." Gob explained. The Wanderer fumed and paced.

"She's coming to." Doc Church said with an air of hardened calm. The Wanderer kneeled at the side of the bed and took Lucy's mangled hand in his.

"Lucy, who did this to you?" The Wanderer asked hurriedly.

"The...the Vault. Raiders..." Lucy whispered in a raspy voice, not unlike Gob's. Then she closed her eyes.

"She's just passed out." Doc said. He walked away from the bed and down the stairs.

"Come get me when...and if, she wakes up." The Wanderer heard Church say before the door slammed shut. Gob rested his hand on The Wanderer's shoulder.

"If you need someone to talk to..."

"I know."

Gob gave the Wanderer a sorry look, then went down the stairs, and out the door. Once the door closed behind Gob, The Wanderer closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in an effort to withhold violent frustration. He kept making funny noises, short and whiny. This continued for some time, until, an eerie calmness engulfed him. He stood and walked down the stairs.

The Tesla armor was glowing and the eyes were both rageful and melancholy all at once to the Wanderer. He wiped the whiskey off the helmet, then picked up the Magnum Revolver on the repair desk. It's familiar weight gave rise to a slumbering beast inside him. Soon, the only sound in the house was the rap of metal boots clanking on the sheet metal flooring, and the rough, rhythmic breathing of one Lucy West. Then the opening and shut of the front door.


	4. Chapter 4

2287

"Damn thing keeps digging into my elbow." The Wanderer muttered as he adjusted his position once more. Fawkes was standing at his side, keeping a lookout whilst the Wanderer had the Reservist's Rifle's scope set on a certain abandoned building. It was in the center of an immense valley, similar to the pit that was Megaton, but with a solitary, disturbingly decent-looking office building.

"No signs of break in, any kind of combat. Hell, not even a goddamn Raider tag. Rads here are pretty high though." The Wanderer said to his personal green giant.

"PERHAPS SOMEBODY CONSTRUCTED THIS BUILDING _AFTER_ THE WAR." Fawkes replied.

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking, but nobody has the kind of resources to do that. Except..." The Wanderer explained before hitting his forehead in a display of frustration and/or inspiration.

"The fucking Enclave. I thought we were just getting lucky with that sack of shit, now they're behind this entire thing. I shoulda known, goddamnit! Let's head in." The Wanderer exclaimed before standing with an air of profound vexation.

The Valley was steep, and Fawkes certainly had some amount of trouble moving downwards, what with his immense, grotesquely muscled legs lacking any kind of pinpoint agility.

The pair came to a stop at the bottom of the valley and they moved slowly toward the entrance of the building. A sixth sense honed by years of living in extraordinary danger was giving the Wanderer an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach. As they were moving forward, little did they know that Fawkes' grotesquely muscled legs had triggered a tripwire some time ago. They heard a low rumbling and somewhat eagerly ceased all sound and movement. The rumbling grow, eventually to deafening volume, and finally, an enormous, monstrous creature emerged from the building, completely demolishing the front side. It seemed to hold a streetlight in it's hands as some type of weapon, and looked at the duo with surprisingly small, sickeningly bloodshot eyes.

The Wanderer recognized the creature as the most dangerous, most frightening creature he had ever encountered since he departed from the Vault all those years ago.

It was a Super Mutant Behemoth.

"FAWKES, RUN!" The Wanderer yelled as he turned away, but out of fear, tripped over his own feet, as if this was some cliched horror film. He heard the hum of the Gatling Laser, and immeasurable panic struck him. The bolts were having almost no effect on the Behemoth, as Fawkes dodged every painfully slow strike from the streetlight.

"FAWKES, GET OUT OF THERE!" The Wanderer reiterated, but his companion was unable to hear The Wanderer's command, nay, plead, over the din over both the laser firing, and the roars of battle. Both his own and the Behemoth's. Fawkes was beginning to slow down, and the streetlight began to miss by increasingly marginal distances.

The Wanderer was now out of the valley, uneasily observing the contest, his thoughts now completely fried. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shimmer, then the clanking of a Fatman dropped onto the irradiated soil. He didn't have time to question this, the Fatman was loaded. He picked up the nuclear device and aimed it directly at the Behemoth.

Fawkes was getting hit now. Harder and harder each time. Then he was barely moving and the Gatling Laser was dead. The Behemoth was in the Wanderer's crosshairs, and his finger was on the trigger. He gritted his teeth and fired.

Time, sound, the world, nothing seemed to register with the Wanderer as he saw the Mini-Nuke cross its trajectory to its target. When it struck the Behemoth's chest, the blinding light occurred to him first. Then the ear-splitting cacophony of atoms dying. He was knocked off his feet and the wind in his lungs escaped him.

The Fatman was on the ground around 5 feet away from the Wanderer, but he only saw that in passing as he rushed down the slope of the crater. The Behemoth's immense body was charred, broken, and most certainly dead.

The Wanderer frantically searched the debris for his companion. Under an enormous chunk of concrete, he recognized the blue cloth distinct to that of a Vault jumpsuit, and nearby, a destroyed Gatling Laser.

The Wanderer dropped to his knees, and the Tesla Armor suddenly became much heavier than before. He heard a muted buzz and felt a hand on his shoulder. Reflexively, he turned and had a .44 Magnum under the man's chin. The Wanderer recognized the emblem of the Brotherhood of Steel on the man's Recon Armor.

"The...What the hell was that?!" The Wanderer yelled from underneath the helmet. He could see the stoic face of the man in the Recon Armor before he was kicked off, and he could hear the sound of the Magnum crack against a slab of debris.

"If you'd just listen to-" The stranger exclaimed before he was tackled by over 300 pounds of armored, Vault-Born rage.

"MY FUCKING FRIEND WAS HERE YOU CUNT!"

"I wanted to warn you, but-"

"Don't tell me, _orders_, right?! THAT'S ALL IT IS WITH YOU FUCKING PEOPLE!" The Wanderer furiously responded before he slammed his fist into the stranger's now manic countenance. A river of scarlet began to stream from the stranger's nose and mouth. The stranger pushed him off, and the Wanderer presented his exhaustion in not assaulting him another time.

"The...the Fatman..."

"I know, it was you..." The two shared silence as the stranger wiped the blood with his sleeve. The Wanderer removed his helmet. His light brown hair was rugged and damp.

"We'd known the Enclave was holding a Behemoth here. I was...under orders to ensure you would destroy it. You didn't disappoint." The stranger explained.

The Wanderer looked at the stranger with tired, dark green eyes. He had a look of shock and disgust.

"That's all I am to the Brotherhood? All Fawkes was? Someone to do your dirty laundry?" The Wanderer asked, barely audible. The stranger gave no answer but a sympathetic look. The Wanderer gave a chuckle and replaced his helmet. The stranger tried to get up, but winced instead. The barrel of the Combat Shotgun was aimed dead into his face, now irrevocably frightened, pleading, and above all, human. His head exploded like a ripe Mutfruit. He leaned down and looted the body. Force of habit. Barrel still smoking, The Wanderer strapped the shotgun to his back and saw Megaton in the distance. He didn't feel like walking, but his legs were moving anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

2297

The residents whispered in hushed tones from the windows of their homes and the catwalks to each other, speculating, and gossiping. The Wanderer paid little mind. As he traversed the hill, 20 years of memories flooded to him all at once, placing inescapable weight on his heart of hearts. He reached the gate, and he turned to see dozens of eyes watching him. He treated himself to a quick chuckle, then opened the gates.

As he exited the shaded alcove, and the sun came upon him, he took a quick sniff.

"Welcome. To. Megaton." Deputy Weld said, seemingly to no one. The Wanderer gave the robot a quick, nostalgic pat on the back, and he wasn't sure if the hunk of battered steel noticed. Not that it mattered.

_Ten years,_ the Wanderer thought. _Ten years, and it's still the same dry, ugly, patch of dirt._

The Capital Wasteland sprawled before him, and he knew that he was then and truly home.

He took step after step, becoming more comfortable with the feel of the aged, worn Tesla Armor. He recalled a saying his father would use from time to time. _Just like riding a bike._

_Yes, Dad. Just like riding a bike._

As he moved farther and farther West, and his eyes could begin to see the familiar boulders and dirt piles and Mole Rat skeletons, he knew the Vault wasn't too far ahead. He wondered what had ever happened to Amata. It had been 20 years since he had seen her last, when she had called on his aid in ridding the Vault of its "new" Overseer, Allen Mack.

In a moment of recollection, the Wanderer could remember a vague feeling of satisfaction in the act of putting a bullet in Mack's gut. Perhaps it was because he had convinced himself that Mack had harmed Amata in some manner. The Wanderer felt rugged anticipation at the thought of feeling this sort of satisfaction again once he found the Raiders who harmed Lucy.

On his journey, the Wanderer had brought two of his best and reliable weapons: the Combat Shotgun, and the Scoped .44 Magnum, fresh from the repair bench.. He wanted something to jump at him. A feral dog, a Radscorpion, a damned Bloatfly, just one excuse to pull the trigger again.

And like a breath of fresh tail, he found one. His eyes weren't what they used to be. Certainly not after Project Purity. But he was about three hundred yards away from the Raider camp. There were four of them, two armed with pool cues, one with a .32 pistol, and the other with an old-fashioned Assault Rifle.

_Slim pickings, _the Wanderer thought. _But I suppose that's alright._

In a moment of frustration, the Wanderer mused on how useful the Reservist's Rifle would be about now. But only for a moment, before he remembered that scum like this didn't deserve a clean death like that.

In all his travels, the Wanderer had learned (with some difficulty) how to sneak in full Power Armor as well as he could sneak naked. This worked greatly to his advantage as the distance between himself and the Raiders' camp diminished, and his hands tightened around the handle of the shotgun.

One of the Raiders was leaning against a boulder, and the Wanderer stealthily moved against its opposite side. The camp was silent, save for the brutish chewing of dried Sugar Bombs and the sloshing of Nuka-Cola.

He stood, and the Raider directly across from him looked up and his eyes widened as he scrambled for his .32. The Wanderer took less than a second to cock the shotgun, aim at the Raider's fumbling arm and fire.

"AHHHH AHHHH!" The Raider screamed and clutched the bleeding stump where his right hand once was as he dropped to his knees. The Raider behind the boulder aimed the Assault Rifle at the Wanderer, but his skull was cracked with the butt of the Combat Shotgun. He fell, unconscious, to the ground. The cola bottles clattered and shattered without a care.

The other two Raiders had tried coming at the Wanderer with their pool cues, but he was able to easily dodge, and block their attempts to grab at the other two's guns. He tossed the shotgun aside for the moment, and like the gunslingers of old, unholstered the Magnum and gutshot the two of them before they could blink.

One knocked out. 3 incapacitated, most likely to die without medical attention. The one minus a hand kept whimpering, and tried to crawl at the Wanderer's tossed shotgun. He holstered the Magnum and slowly stepped on the Raider's stump.

"AHHHHHH-"

"Shut up."

The Wanderer took a knee and grabbed the Raider by the scruff of his beat-up, almost motley armor.

The Raider couldn't have been more than 20, and obviously frightened out of his wits. But he still managed a nervous laugh before he spat onto the Wanderer's helmet in defiance.

The Wanderer paid no mind.

"Before I kill you, I want you to know why. Redhead came by here a few hours ago. You nearly killed her. I won't be as careless. Just ask your friends."

The Raider said nothing, but let out a tired laugh. The Wanderer narrowed his eyes under the helmet, then threw the Raider back to the ground. As he stood and retrieved the shotgun, he took a few moments to relish the brutal contentment he had been so eagerly anticipating. A feeling of familiarity washed over him as well, before the Raider's cranium was blown to bits and he was hit at the base of the skull with a Super Sledge.


	6. Chapter 6

2287

There was kind of an eerie silence when the Wanderer ascended the hill to Megaton's entrance alone. The mole rats tittered and Deputy Weld's servos shifted with a muted clanging, but the Wanderer himself said nothing, and heard nothing. To him, he could only hear the mini-nuke detonating, and the splatter of the Brotherhood knight's skull onto the irradiated soil. The gates opened, and he didn't bother to notice the mutterings of the residents as they saw that he reentered Megaton alone.

When he opened the door, Dogmeat slowly trotted up to him. The Wanderer absentmindedly stroked his fur. It was graying, and one of his hind legs was developing a limp. But his tail wagged happily all the same.

"Hey." Maggie's jubilant tone almost shattered the cloud of darkness that remained ever so present in the Wanderer's mind.

"Hey."

Maggie slowly walked toward the door and furrowed her brow.

"Where's Fawkes?"

The mention of his name made the Wanderer's intestines furl and writhe. He said nothing, but traversed the stairs up to the bedroom and quietly closed the door behind him. He removed the helmet, and looked at himself in the mirror he had nailed to the wall some years ago. Hair clung to his brow by way of sweat, and a stubble had begun to present itself.

_Old, _the Wanderer thought. _Old and tired._ The Wanderer browsed the contents of his filing cabinet, brimming with trinkets and objects from Pre-War society. Old whiskey bottles, neckties, cigarettes, and so on. As he felt the aged, comfortably full carton of cigarettes, he recalled Dukov smoking them in a very particular way. He retrieved a book of matches from the same space, struck it, then lit the cigarette. To the Wanderer, it was not too dissimilar to inhaling the fumes of charred flesh or steel. It calmed his nerves considerably. He suddenly became immeasurably tired, and collapsed onto the bed, and the lit cigarette fell from his hand, and onto the floor, near the bed.

Had the Wanderer been conscious, he would have noticed that one of the broken whiskey bottles wasn't entirely empty and soon caught flame.


End file.
